


f(x)

by vaarsuvius



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Other, POV Second Person, Spark Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-04
Updated: 2015-09-04
Packaged: 2018-04-19 01:09:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4727081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaarsuvius/pseuds/vaarsuvius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Megatron's had a long time to think aboard the Lost Light. Back on Cybertron, Starscream hasn't had any. Megatron pays a visit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	f(x)

The door opens, closes, a shadow long and heavy across the room and then nothing, and then dark, dark silence. Heavy and settling in your chest like his optics, pinpricks bleeding light. His voice comes to you through miles of water, sand, like sound delayed when you run as fast as you can.

"I rehearsed what I was going to say to you," he says.

Your mouth opens, responds to him, for how can a machine do anything but what it was built for, modified for, born for, you say, "And?"

"And I think you and I both know there’s nothing I can say."

"You’re damned right there’s not."

You feel like you might die. The moment feels like five million years compressed into one and oozing and bursting out of your seams and screaming against the funnel of gravity as inexorably, time marches forward, every road leads to an end, and what goes up comes down. He comes down on you, the moment sharpens to a point, swings, breaks. An explosion, concussive, his hand as soft as a warm updraft and painful, bad, bad, a hammer swinging at an anvil as he leans down to you, gentle as if handling your very spark, your whole body raw.

How do you make him tear you apart, get his hands in the betweens of you and pull you into his arms? You scream until your own audials crackle and your head numbs. Your spark oozes like a wound out the twin holes his optics left, and you cant stop screaming, if you stop something terrible will happen, like you’ll die, or live, or this will end, or he’ll be sorry. You wish he’d rip your vocalizer out instead.

You cry out like it will rip a hole right through his chest plating. You cry like it will do anything at all. You throw yourself at him, a bomb gone off, you pin him to the floor, it’s so dark in your office, it’s so dark inside, it’s dark on the bridge and it’s dark on the shutters of your optics when you can’t fight him anymore because the back of a hand hurts so much on certain days and on others he hurts you with its absence.

It’s because he lets you, your frame is so small next to his, like a house next to a fire, whichever is you or him. You think you might have stopped screaming, but your audials ring, you can’t feel it, can’t tell. His hands on your wings make you sharp and desperate. The metal, the closeness of him, is enough to pry you open like a flower. Not premature but late, staving off the inevitable, the inexorable, this last whisper hiss of you, of him, sliding too into dark.

You arch your backstrut, press your chest into him as if trying to smelt your frames together into one, as if trying to disappear into him altogether, his shadow returned. He holds your wings, holds you, a frantic creature in the throes of escape, like a caged thing, precious only in capture. You sob hatred in pulses, you press down on him but he consumes you from the deep below. How could it ever have gone any other way? How could it have fit so perfectly into your jagged tears, if not because they were born of his shape? Nothing else could hold your spark like the egg holds the yolk, like the cup holds the water, like he holds you in the dents of your wings and you hold him in your spark, forever and ever until the claw marks buff and wash out of his paint and your fingers don’t hold his trace. Like the function of you, as real and true as the turn of your cog.

You love him there, and here, with your twin pricked self you love his face with its needles and pins and hollow dark. You rest your love in silence and in energon in the cupped palm of his hand until day breaks the dark and your voice licks out the remains, until the sun doesn’t speak his name.


End file.
